I am sorry I did not bring you home with me.
Your figure, wet with dew in the dark,
defies my limited lingual talents.
You were a bell, inverted,
painted by some wavering hand,
your skin mellowed and worn by sun
light, so delicately close to falling, wilting.
I put my fingers on your taut neck,
felt it bend in my grasp, but could not
snap your spine. You deserve a life lived
more than just in my failing sight.